GOING ON PILGRIMAGE.
“Still onward winds the dreary way;
I with it.”
“A glorious morning!” was our remark as we met at breakfast on March
28th. “Just the day for a pilgrimage to Mar Saba.”
The hour was early, but long before we had risen the shouts of Ameen
and a muleteer mingling with the tramp of horses announced the arrival
of part of our escort.
The Arab is a restless as well as a vociferating person, and cannot
comprehend why the average Saxon goes to bed regularly at night,
sleeps till morning, and keeps awake all day. For himself, well, the
hour of repose and the nature of his couch are matters of perfect
indifference. He takes his dog sleep like Sairey Gamp imbibed her
spirits—“when so dispoged.”
If you tell him your wish is to start at eight in the morning, behold,
he is knocking at your door before sunrise, and imploring you to make
haste. He is convinced in his own mind that the intervening hours
will be spent in the absurdities of washing and dressing. If you
remonstrate, he shrugs his shoulders, and you may presently hear him
confiding to his friend, that “the English are a strange people. True,
Allah made them, but He alone can understand them!”
We were very punctual on this particular morning, and at seven o’clock
had mounted our rough little horses, whose wonderful necklaces and
charms formed no small part of their equipment.
The muleteer highly entertained us. He was a round-faced,
scantily-clothed youth, whose evident pride in his cattle was manifest
as he pointed to their decorations. He greeted us with broad grins and
“Bon jour!” These words being the only scrap of a foreign tongue he had
picked up, they were employed in season and out of season. Whenever one
of our party looked pleased, or nodded kindly to him, he would stiffen
himself, beam on her, and, with a fine air, roll out the salutation,
“Bon jour!”
Our cavalcade now formed up, and we started off in high spirits,
prepared for any adventure that might fall to our lot. Ameen, of
course, led the van, his black horse gorgeously dressed in trappings
of “barbaric splendour,” and he seated on a wondrous saddle, his
purple silk shawl or _kaffieh_ tied round his head and falling behind
in graceful folds over the voluminous abbah, or cloak. The pair were
imposing-looking objects in dignified contrast to the ludicrous figures
of “Bon Jour” and his beast, who followed next in the procession.
His horse was a fearful and wonderful creature, carefully guarded
against the influence of the evil eye by fantastic festoons of blue
beads and shells which depended from his neck and mane and tail.
Stacked upon his back were cooking pots, luncheon baskets, sunshades,
wraps, and other gear, flanked by bursting saddle-bags. In the midst of
these articles sat “Bon Jour,” complacently ambling on in the jog-trot
style peculiar to his tribe, his brown legs dangling down, his leathern
belt decorated with
“A bottle on each side
To keep his balance true.”
We brought up the rear demurely enough, trying to get our mettlesome
steeds under control, with the help of “Bon Jour,” who, turning round
and facing us, would yell in Arabic one moment to them, and the next
encourage us with—
“Nods and becks, and wreathèd smiles,”
and the inevitable salutation in the French tongue, looking for all the
world like a travelling showman on parade!
The first part of our journey lay along the Bethlehem road, which
was fairly good, but has, I understand, been vastly improved for the
German Emperor’s visit. On either side were smiling plains and grey
olive groves, dressed in the lovely fresh hues of spring. Carpets of
delicate flowers were spread on the roadside—for there are no hedges
in Palestine—the air was soft and pleasant and everything took its
colouring from the joyous morning.
The tomb of Rachel claimed our attention for a moment. We were quite
familiar with its appearance from the many illustrations we had seen,
so that the simple dome-like structure on the wayside seemed an old
friend. Pious Jews, Christians, and Moslems offer their prayers at its
shrine, and apparently derive equal benefit from their devotions.
A little beyond, on the slope of a hill, the pretty village of Beit
Jala gleamed and glittered in the sunlight. The city of Kish, the
father of King Saul, originally stood there. Was it to that hill, I
wonder, the young, handsome Saul, after his election as King of Israel,
returned when he “went home to Gibeah, and with him a band of men whose
hearts God had touched”?
An element of discord was not wanting as we rode through the peaceful
valleys. Overhead wheeled a great vulture, hungrily waiting to swoop
down on some dead carcase—a camel or a donkey perhaps—and devour its
prey. On a crag close by sat a majestic eagle, his piercing eyes boldly
fixed on the sun. The solitary bird seemed a fitting type of the
departed glory of Israel.
It was pleasant further on to notice signs of human life. Shepherds
were tending their flocks and playing on “David’s” pipes—a terrible
instrument, by the way, giving forth horrible sounds suggestive of
Highland bagpipes in the hands and mouth of a beginner—shepherd-boys
were hurling stones from a primitive sling (knitted in worsted) with
marvellous skill and true aim at an imaginary Goliath.
In contrast to these pastoral amusements, the solemn Moslem, with
his shoes carefully removed, his face towards Mecca, performed his
religious duties on the roadside, going through his prayers and
prostrations unmoved by the curious glances of strangers and pilgrims
from other lands.
We were now nearing the birthplace of our Saviour, through which city
we had to pass. On the east is a narrow valley called the Shepherds’
Plain. Even on this early spring morning it looked a bare treeless
spot, with stony slopes shining white, and a few crumbling ruins. It
was here, according to tradition, that the angelic messengers announced
the glad tidings to the wondering shepherds and sang the magnificent
“Gloria in Excelsis.”
I am bound to say that my enthusiasm was not kindled by the sight
of those holy fields. Indeed, my preconceived ideas received a
rude shock—as they often did during our travels—and I came to the
woeful conclusion that on the whole it was more pleasing to visit in
imagination the sacred spots in Palestine than go on pilgrimage to the
actual places.
Just as the sun pointed to nine o’clock, we were entering the
straggling city of Bethlehem. We had, as in all Oriental towns, to pick
our way carefully through the narrow undulating streets with their
hillocks of rubbish and valleys of mud. We were occasionally jammed up
against a wall to avoid too close contact with the strings of camels
laden with stone for repairing the roads for the expected Imperial
visit.
“Bon Jour” of course indulged in lively altercations with the camel
drivers; he also unceremoniously pushed aside men, women, and children
who happened to be in the line of route. Miss B. told us that a
quantity of very bad language was freely dispensed on both sides, but
it apparently bred no ill feeling, as we afterwards saw “Bon Jour”
and one of the men, who had most violently assaulted him with words,
walking amicably across the square.
One cannot fail to be greatly struck by the bright hopeful looks
both of the city and its inhabitants, who, we were told, were all
Christians. Indeed, it was plainly visible in the thriving aspect of
the place and energy of the people, who were busily employed, that
Moslem inertness had no stronghold here. The sound of the hammer, the
whirr of the wheel, and the grating of the file fell pleasantly on the
ear as the industrious workers fashioned the great pearl shells into
beads, brooches, and beautifully carved ornaments.
The men and women of Bethlehem are much fairer in complexion than other
natives of Syria. The girls are celebrated for their beauty, their
large soft blue eyes and brown hair giving them a European look which
is almost startling. Their lovely dress adds to their picturesqueness,
and the tall cap, covered with gold and silver coins, which the married
women wear, gives height to their graceful figures.
There was not much time on this occasion to make more than casual
observations, for time was pressing. We rode into the great square and
dismounted near the Church of the Nativity, which now stands inside the
fortress Monastery of the Virgin.
While our guides took the horses to be watered, we wandered about the
open cemetery, alternately “meditating among the tombs” of the brave
Crusaders who lie buried there, and watching the animated scene in the
portion of the square used as a market.
We laughed heartily at one unwary traveller who, having yielded weakly
to the persuasive powers of an importunate shopman, was literally
besieged by half-a-dozen others. The unfortunate object of these
attentions looked simply desperate, the perspiration pouring from his
face as his enemies pulled him this way, pushed him that, shouting
and yelling in the Arabic tongue, and gesticulating menacingly with
one hand while they held on to him with the other. He could not
understand, poor fellow, a word they said, and evidently thought they
were going to murder him. We saw him finally dragged into a shop by the
two strongest, while the other four waited outside for their victim
to emerge, when the attack would be resumed. We wondered whether his
friends would come to the rescue!
The few remaining minutes at our disposal were spent in visiting
the famous study of St. Jerome, a gloomy cell cut in the rock in
the vaults of the Church. It was here the great Father spent so
many years of his life in translating the Scriptures into the noble
Vulgate. He was helped in his herculean task by Paula and her daughter
Eustochia—learned Roman ladies—who followed Jerome to Bethlehem and
founded a convent there over which he presided. Their tombs, with that
of Eusebius, are in the vaults. The Grotto of the Nativity we left for
another day.
We were joined in the square by a fine-looking Arab, with loins girded,
and his bare feet thrust into red shoes. He saluted us gravely and with
much dignity. Pointing to an ancient rifle (which was slung across
his shoulders and was patched up in an original and striking manner,
calculated to burst if by any chance it was loaded), he informed us
that he had been appointed our escort across the wilderness and,
further, that he would guard our lives and property as he would his own.
Miss B., who translated his remarks, told us not to be alarmed, for
if by any chance we should be attacked by robbers, Mustapha would
be two miles ahead of us, and we should run no danger of being
killed by the explosion of his gun! This we felt was severe on our
aristocratic-looking defender.
The horses and their attendants now came up, “Bon Jour’s” beast
more grotesquely laden than before. We were soon in the saddle, and
winding round the eastern corner of the Monastery, turned our backs on
civilisation, and entered the dreary wilderness called in Scripture
Jeshimon or Solitude.
For the next four or five hours we rode through this region, which in
winter must be ghastly indeed. Even the glory of the spring flowers,
which thinly covered its otherwise naked, soft, chalky slopes, failed
to enliven it. Everything but the flowers was of one colour—the glaring
ridges, the fantastic peaks, the sharp spurs, the rugged rocks, the
narrow ravines with their stony beds, the camels, the foxes, and the
dogs all were a kind of tawny yellow.
[Illustration: BETHLEHEM. (_From the painting by Paul Linke._)]
We saw neither tree nor water. A few black tents of the Bedawîn formed
a welcome relief from the blinding glare. Not a sound disturbed these
solitudes, except the occasional bark of a dog in the tents below.
Ameen told us that the people living in this region are distinct from
other races, their dialect is different from that of other districts,
their traditions, habits, and dress are those of an entirely different
people.
Our brave little horses accomplished that fearfully hot journey in
grand style; they carried us up those awful rocks and along the edges
of precipitous steeps which filled our minds with horror.
Ameen and “Bon Jour” sang their monotonous Arabic songs in shrill
keys, or dozed in their saddles. Mustapha untiringly walked on with
his peculiar swinging gait, often lost to sight, but turning up again,
bearing in his hands bouquets of exquisite flowers, which he offered to
us with a grace of manner which added much to the pretty gift.
The heat grew more and more intense. Not a breath of wind gave relief.
I can well believe one writer, who says, “There are probably few places
in Asia where the sun beats down with as fierce a heat and irresistible
power as in the desert of Judah.”
It was two o’clock before we dismounted and sat down under the shadow
of a square tower known as the Ladies’ Tower and built on a knoll. A
narrow fissure divides it from the Monastery of Mar Saba into which no
woman is allowed to enter.
We were tired and hungry, but Ameen soon unstrapped the luncheon
baskets and spread out on the rock the hard-boiled eggs, the sardines
and other dainties for our meal. We fell to with much spirit, while
Ameen and Mustapha went to the convent to boil water and make us
refreshing tea.
Our first visitor was a yellow dog, thin and mangy, who snapped up
hungrily the morsels of food we threw to him. Then a dozen or so dark
heads belonging to young girls and boys popped up above the edge of the
rock; these were followed by a couple of wild-looking men, from the
Bedawîn encampment below. They all stared solemnly at us and smiled at
our manner of eating, but they did not beg.
Presently a couple of Arab youths, smartly dressed (for they were
servants to a party of travellers who were camping close by), made
their appearance, and, perching themselves on a crag, gathered the
ragged Bedawîn together, and held forth with great animation, the
audience listening with open mouths.
Miss B. amused us by translating the address which excited so much
interest. _We_ were the subject of it.
“The Frangi ladies,” the Arab youth said, “are like men. They do things
like men—they ride, they gallop, they run! They eat what they like.
They go where they like—they never ask their husbands! All the Frangis
are rich; they have flocks and goats and camels. They can buy the whole
world if they like. They have seen the whole world, and they can speak
the Arabic!”
This was the climax, the topstone of the pinnacle of virtues and
accomplishments of this marvellous race of beings. The Bedawîn looked
incredulous. Miss B. said a few words to the youth in Arabic, when the
whole company raised a shout of delight exclaiming—
“See! Hark! She speaks our language like the Holy Prophet! Praised be
Allah!”
The Convent of Mar Saba is built on the side of a precipice, four
hundred feet high. It clings to the cliff, while its walls are
supported by huge buttresses. It is brown, like everything else in the
district. Deep silence surrounds it. There it stands, melancholy and
alone, without a tree or shrub in sight. Every breeze is shut out by
great crags. The sigh of the wind is never heard. Solitude and death
seem to reign everywhere. We heard that the wretched inmates—monks
exiled for crimes or small offences—become as fossilised as their
surroundings.
It was in 480 A.D. St. Saba and St. Euthymius, following the general
custom of ascetics, established the first nucleus of the present
monastery.
There is a solitary palm growing high up on the side of the building,
said to have been planted by the Saint, which sprang up bearing dates
without stones on the same day.
There is also a cavern in the rock (into which we did not go) where the
Saint lived with his lion, which at first had occupied the whole of
the cave, but, finding the Saint refused to be ejected, he gave up the
contest and contented himself with a cupboard three feet square, where
he slept.
One traveller says that “the monks may scarcely read the valuable
manuscripts in their library, yet they hide them carefully from the
eyes of heretics. Within the walls they may neither smoke nor eat
meat, yet raw spirits find their way past the porter, as we were able
to prove. A more hopeless, purposeless, degraded life can scarcely be
imagined than that of such hermits.”
Elizabeth and I, accompanied by Mustapha, descended into the Fire
Valley, as the huge gorge is called, by which the waters of Jerusalem
are carried down to the Dead Sea. It was dry now, and as we looked up
at the stern frowning monastery and its solitary palm tree with its
bright green leaves, our spirits were depressed, and we hastened on.
It was in that melancholy prison that St. Bernard conjured up the
vision of beauty and happiness expressed in his hymn—
“Those eternal bowers
Man hath never trod,
Those unfading flowers
Round the throne of God,
Who may hope to gain them
After weary fight?
Who at length attain them
Clad in robes of white?
* * * * *
While we do our duty
Struggling through the tide,
Whisper Thou of beauty
On the other side.
What though sad the story
Of this life’s distress—
Oh, the future glory!
Oh, the loveliness!”
The monk St. Stephen, in the eighth century, lived here and wrote the
famous Greek hymn, the well-known English version beginning with the
touching verse—
“Art thou weary, art thou languid,
Art thou sore distrest?
Come to Me, saith One, and coming
Be at rest.”
The remainder of our party met us at an appointed spot, and almost in
silence we rode home through the Kedron Gorge, arriving in Jerusalem
just as darkness fell.
S. E. BELL.
“OUR HERO.”
A TALE OF THE FRANCO-ENGLISH WAR NINETY YEARS AGO.
BY AGNES GIBERNE, Author of “Sun, Moon and Stars,” “The Girl at the
Dower House,” etc.